


A Meeting in the Park, not entirely by Chance

by Roshwen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 22:15:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Roshwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘John! John Watson!’</p><p>He turned around. A large, broad-shouldered man with a sunburned face, dishwater hair and a three-day beard had been sitting on a bench and was now walking towards him. ‘You probably don’t remember me’ he grinned. ‘Moran. Seb Moran. We were at Helmand together.’</p><p>John indeed didn’t remember, but felt there wouldn’t be any use admitting it. ‘Of course,’ he said, shaking the outstretched hand. ‘Seb. Hello.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Meeting in the Park, not entirely by Chance

Even though it was a pleasant 20 degrees with a clear blue sky and just enough of a breeze to give a fragrant edge to the air, for all John cared it was as dull and grey as it had ever been. He had brought himself around to go out and get some air in the park after a day of sitting in his flat with nothing but his own thoughts to fill the time resulted in the worst nightmare he’d had in years, but now that he was here, he wished he’d gone somewhere else. Somewhere where there were no joggers or people playing sports, no people having a great time, hanging out with friends or lovers and basking in some rare British sunshine. A calm and quiet place where didn’t have to watch out for his cane being mistaken for a stick by stray dogs, or be careful not to break his neck by tripping over equally stray children. 

Unfortunately, the only calm and quiet place he could think of was the one place he absolutely could not go, should he not wish all the work his therapist had done so far to go to waste. Some days, going to the cemetery was exactly what he needed, when the urge to talk, to put all the pain and emptiness into words, to  _say something_ inside him grew so big and loud and heavy that he couldn’t bear it any longer and the two words on a large black stone were the only thing he could stand to hear him. Those were good days, in a way.

Other days, the mere thought of the stone and what or rather who lay under it was enough to make him sick to the point of  _literally_  being sick. Those were bad days, and today was a day of the latter kind.

So John limped on, hating and welcoming all the distraction the park could offer him. He was just on his way back, contemplating whether he would get some coffee from a nearby stand or not, when he heard someone behind him calling his name.

‘John! John Watson!’

He turned around. A large, broad-shouldered man with a sunburned face, dishwater hair and a three-day beard had been sitting on a bench and was now walking towards him. ‘You probably don’t remember me’ he grinned. ‘Moran. Seb Moran. We were at Helmand together.’

John indeed didn’t remember, but felt there wouldn’t be any use admitting it. ‘Of course,’ he said, shaking the outstretched hand. ‘Seb. Hello.’

He didn’t really look forward to chatting with an old comrade. He could do without chatting about the weather, the war, life in general and how fucked up it was to try and live a normal life after all you’d seen and done. In fact, all he wanted was to say hello, falsely promise to catch up another time, make some excuse and go home.

Seb, however, had other plans. ‘Let’s get coffee,’ he said still grinning. ‘I’ve been dying to see an old brother in arms here in London. Only people who know what you’re talking about, eh?’

A few minutes later they sat back on the bench, cautiously sipping their coffee. ‘What happened?’ John asked after a few minutes of remarks about the weather and London in general. As far as he could see, the man was in great shape both physically and mentally, yet here he was in sitting on a bench in a park in London instead of crouching behind a gun in Helmand.

Seb shrugged. ‘PTSD started a little early. Turns out panic attacks in the field are rather frowned upon, so they gave me a medal, Her Majesty’s compliments and a ride home.’

Unfortunately for Seb, John had spent a little too much time with people lying through their teeth about a variety of topics to not notice the signs, subtle as they might be. There wasn’t even a hint of truth concealed behind a cloud of lies; it was a massive fairy tale, magnificent in its simplicity and could-be-true-quality, but ultimately false. The way it was told, with such ease as a student explaining why they didn’t do their homework, made John inconspicuously sit up and take note of the man.

Now that he actually started to pay attention, John started to believe that not only Seb’s story was false, but his whole air of geniality and friendliness was just a mask as well.

There was nothing to warrant any suspicion, in fact, everything about the man appeared perfectly normal and that was precisely what gave him away. Being a military man himself, and having learned from Sherlock to pick up on small details, John had always and nearly without fault been able to spot a fellow soldier. The army always left a mark, no matter how deep it was hidden. It showed in the way a man held himself, the attention he gave to his surroundings. And yes, sometimes, when the bloke in question had only just returned and hadn’t had time for it to grow out, even his haircut.

John would wager anything Seb had never been in Afghanistan, or if he had, he hadn’t been in the army. But there was something else about him, an underlying tension triggering all John’s senses and making his hackles rise and the hair on the back of his neck stand up. This was not a man who had done his duty and was sent home to rest and complain about it; this was a man still on a mission, ready to attack at the smallest provocation. Though what the mission was, and what exactly would constitute a provocation was beyond John.

Seb was used to violence, that much John could see, but it was a different kind of violence, one entirely devoid of moral codes and integrity. The man exuded danger like a fire exuded heat. He was starting to suspect their meeting hadn’t been entirely coincidental when something else hit him and his skin started to crawl.

Limping in the park. Walking past the bench. The exact same fucking bench, now he came to think of it. Someone calling out behind him. Getting coffee together with an old friend he hadn’t seen in years.

 _Shit_.

When one has lived with Sherlock Holmes, one learns to dismiss the possibility of chance as an easy explanation. If John’s alarm bells hadn’t been ringing before, they sure were now.

Then Seb casually asked the question that sent the bells into a clinging frenzy.

‘And how’ve you been eh, here back home? I heard you got yourself involved with that fake detective, whatsisname, Sheldon?’

‘Sherlock,’ John answered carefully. ‘Yeah, we shared a flat for some time.’

‘Oh, I heard you shared a bit more than just the flat,’ Seb grinned. ‘I read the blog, you know. Partners in crime, was it not? Or partners against crime, rather.’

John suddenly wished he was armed. Shooting a man in broad daylight, in the middle of a crowded park might not be the most sensible thing to do, but the weight of his gun would go a long way to reassure him. ‘We solved some cases together, if that’s what you mean. Nothing else, really. Just friends.’

Seb’s face twisted into something not quite a smile. ‘Shame,’ he said. ‘Fake or not, he must have been a clever guy. You’d think setting up all those crimes would take as much effort as solving them, right? But of course, you’d know, wouldn’t you? Being his flatmate and all? Was he a super hero or a master villain?’

John’s brain helpfully conjured up the image of Sherlock scoffing at the idea of heroism. He would never have forgiven him if John started calling him a hero now. A small, rebellious part of John reminded him that the dead are not aware of things to be forgiven but he squashed it and went with the part of him that still wished to please his friend.

‘Not the master villain,’ John answered slowly, ‘but I wouldn’t say he was a hero, either. He did what he did best, that’s all.’

Seb grunted a noncommittal noise.

John used the ensuing silence to do some danger assessment. As far as he could make out, Seb was unarmed. He couldn’t make out any people watching them more closely than they ought, so hopefully, at this moment, the man was working alone. His questions though, seemed to be aimed to get at Sherlock, not John, which made no sense. He’d get back on that later.

A thought struck him and he turned around, pretending to search for something but in reality glancing at the security camera on the coffee stand.

Bingo.

‘What is it?’ Seb asked.

‘Nothing,’ John replied, hurriedly trying to find a believable explanation. ‘Just thought I heard someone call my name.’ With all the people in the park and his name as common as it was, it was a very plausible lie and Seb didn’t question it.

‘Do you miss him?’ Seb asked suddenly.

There was no need to fake anything about his reply. ‘Of course I do,’ John said, even more on his guard than before but unable to completely control the emotions that thinking about Sherlock always inspired. ‘He saved my life, in more than one way. He _was_ my life. As you said, we were partners in crime. So yes, of course I miss him.’

The distraction of talking and trying to figure out who Seb was and what he was doing had done much to distract John from the bone-crushing weight of grief that had driven him into the park in the first place, but now it all returned in full force, landing in his gut like a particularly heavy chocolate pie on an empty stomach. He carefully let out one long slow breath and scrubbed his face with his hands, silently forcing all his pain and anger to stay inside. The situation was bad enough as it was, and would most certainly not benefit from a breakdown.

‘I really miss him,’ he repeated quietly.

It hadn’t escaped his notice how Seb had been watching him intently. ‘I see,’ he answered softly. ‘I do apologize, that was a bit tactless.’

‘Yeah, just a bit,’ John said, too busy trying to regain control over himself to put any sting into the words.

‘It’s a bitch to find proper accommodation in London, don’t you think?’ Seb said, changing the subject so entirely and completely John had to make a mental u-turn to keep up. ‘I mean, I’ve found this place, lovely, affordable, everything, but I can’t move in until next month. I’m staying with my sister now, but she’s quite getting tired of me, and I of her. She’s got a kid, you know, little brat does nothing but screaming and wailing and nagging for sweets all the livelong day. Pulling my nerves to shreds, the whole time.’

John nodded sympathetically and blundered straight into the trap. ‘No friends who could help out?’

Seb shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid not. Don’t know anyone around here, except for you. Hey, I don’t suppose I could… I mean, would it be possible for me to kip at your place for a few days? Two weeks, at most?’

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at John sheepishly.

Despite himself, John was oh so very tempted to say yes. Of course, inviting Seb into his house, knowing or at least suspecting what sort of a man he was, would be an act of monumental stupidity and incredibly dangerous. Then again, so had been the decision to start living with Sherlock Holmes.

But at least something would  _happen_ to him again. He was sick and tired of this empty life, getting up, going to work, coming home, going to bed, having nightmares and do it all again the next day, and the day after that and the week, month, year after  _that,_ without anything ever changing. Not anymore. He yearned, oh, how he yearned for the thrill of the wild and unexpected, the unknown and possibly lethal danger lurking around every corner. Living with Seb could bring it all back.

Except not really, he thought at last. The difference being of course that with Sherlock it had been about running together, the two of them against the world, whereas with Seb, he’d still be on his own and the danger would be coming from inside. There would be no place to run to, nowhere to hide, to be safe.

He could do without that.

A chime from his phone interrupted his train of thought. The message confused him for a split second, and then in an instant became crystal clear.

_Please don’t kill yourself, John. I’d never forgive myself. Talk to you later. X Anthea._

‘What’s that?’ Seb asked, suspicious at the change suddenly come over him.

John swallowed a grin. ‘Nothing, just a friend.’ He paused, suddenly seeing the perfect way out of this mess. If other people could throw the truth out of the window, so could he.

‘I phoned her last night, telling her how tired I was of it all and how it’d be best for me to just jump into the Thames and be done with it. Still don’t really know whether I was serious or not, but it got her worried all right. Seems she wants to keep an eye out.’

Seb swallowed the story completely. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Thoughtful of her.’

John shrugged and decided to go for it. ‘Did the same for her, once. She’s just returning the favour. But anyway, I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to stay with me. Sorry, nothing personal, but I really don’t need anyone but myself in my flat right now.’ He waved his phone to support his argument.

‘Fair enough,’ Seb admitted. ‘I guess I’ll just have to survive another two weeks at Helga’s. But you take care of yourself, would you?’ He was zipping up his jacket: conversation over.

‘Of course,’ John said, smiling for a variety of reasons, none of which, he suspected, Seb would like very much. ‘We’ll stay in touch?’

‘Sure,’ Seb replied, grinning broadly. ‘I’ll see you later.’

ooOoo

John waited until Seb was long gone from sight before he headed for the park exit. To his totally absent surprise, a familiar figure with an umbrella was waiting for him next to a sleek black car.

ooOoo

Somewhere in the underbelly of London, in a nondescript café where no questions were asked and no answers were given, a man sat huddled in his oversized hoodie, smoking a cigarette and clutching a cup of black water misleadingly advertised as coffee. He had just taken another sip and made another disgusted face when his phone buzzed.

The message provoked no reaction whatsoever, but someone observing the man might notice that this was not so much because there was none, but because it was controlled and slammed down with an iron fist.

The text read:

_I’m going to kill you. JW._

The man took another drag on his cigarette when the phone buzzed again. And again. And again.

Now the imaginary observer could make out some emotion leaking through the cracks in the man’s posture. The hand around the coffee cup clenched. The other hand holding the phone trembled ever so slightly. Still, the man’s face remained impassive.

_No, I’m not. Come home. Please. JW._

_On second thought, I might strangle you a bit. JW._

_Come home anyway. JW._

The coffee had gone cold.

The man finished his cigarette, erased the texts, dropped his phone in the bin on the way out and went home.

 


End file.
